


Candid

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Episode Tag, Episode: Happy Families, Episode: s01e02 Fugue, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, hair petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 10:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17506748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: Even when the news is good, Morse doesn't like seeing his face in the paper.





	Candid

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't planning on this, but Happy Families stressed me out on Morse's behalf and I had to spew this out my fingers. Works on the assumption that Morse is reacting to stuff that happened in Endeavour (despite that bit where he was like "i've never been taken off a case" and me, thinking of smol!morse, was like "oh REALLY?")
> 
> 2k19 is time to Not Overthink And Sit On All My Fic.

“You should be happy about this one,” Robbie said, tossing the paper onto the desk. “They’re all saying how you pulled it off. Everything short of recommending wine and opera to us regular folk on the street.” There was a picture on the front page of Morse giving a smug, tight-lipped smile from behind the wheel of the jag, right over a celebratory headline. It looked like him, anyway, unlike the weird open-mouthed mess of a photo Robbie had got stuck with the day before.

It was good, the day after a case. Morse back in the Super’s good books, Robbie the same, a couple hours maybe to feel satisfied before another case came up. He was about to say as much when he heard the crumple of paper and looked over to see Morse staring at nothing, his own photo crushed in a tight fist.

“Sir?” Robbie asked. “You alright?”

Morse didn’t answer. Didn’t even look his way.

“Sir!”

This time he glanced over, but that was almost worse. His eyes were panicked and empty like he’d just seen a ghost or something.

“Sir, what’s wrong?” Robbie was on his feet now, ready to rush over or call someone or… well he wasn’t sure, really.

Morse’s voice came out hoarse, sharp. “I need a _drink_ , Lewis.”

That was easy. Morse never seemed to be far from a bottle, and whiskey and tumblr were practically in arm’s reach. Robbie poured. Morse tossed the paper so hard it knocked over the bin. “It’s all right, Sir,” Robbie said. “You solved the case, nobody’s gonna write about you any more.”

Morse shook his head and downed the glass.

If it was Val or a mate or somebody, Robbie would’ve put a hand on their back, tried to calm them down. Morse wasn’t the sort who welcomed gestures like that, but when Robbie went to step away, Morse’s hand— the one that wasn’t holding the drink— came up and gripped tight to his upper arm.

“ _Lewis._ ”

“I’m here, Sir. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He couldn’t reach Morse’s back from this angle, but he reached across his body and risked an awkward pat to the DCI’s wrist. Then Morse leaned in and Robbie found it easier to run his fingers through the downy hair at the side of his head. It seemed to do the trick, at least.

“Privacy, Lewis,” Morse managed finally. “If you haven’t got that, what have you got?” He sat up and poured himself a second drink, and Robbie knew they’d never speak of that unexpected intimacy again. He stayed close, though, perched on the edge of Morse’s desk.

“I don’t know,” he said. “What have you got?”

“ _Nothing,_ Lewis. And what you do have becomes even more of a weakness than it was already.”

“Are you sure you’re alright, Sir?”

He couldn’t help but feel reassured by the glare that came his way. That was back in order at least. “No, I am not _alright_. I’m just coming out of a panic attack. Been having them all week.”

It didn’t look like any panic attack Robbie had ever seen, but he knew better than to argue. It was something not right, that was for sure. “Well, is there anything I can do for—”

“Just— close the door. And get rid of that bloody paper.”

Robbie did as he was told. Waited until he was back at the desk to say “Look, Sir. I know it’s bad, and they’d no business poking around in your personal life like that, but it's not as though they’re gonna make you start hating opera or anything, right?”

Morse shook his head. “Lewis, have you ever seen newspaper clippings of your face taped up on a killer’s wall?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“I have. Twice.”

“You mean De Vries? Oh, he really had it out for you.” There’d been a lot going on and Robbie hadn’t spent much time dwelling on the details of the house, not when he’d thought Morse was dead and the con-man was on the run. But he could’ve sworn there’d been a collage of sorts on his wall. Made sense, really, if the man was obsessed enough to frame Morse for murder.

“Very good, Lewis,” Morse said dryly.

“Who’s the other one, then?”

“Mason Gull. Serial killer. Back when I first started working at Oxford.” The bottle was already half empty, but Robbie said nothing as Morse poured himself another. “A journalist had done a feature on me. Well-meaning, I’m sure, nothing like the bloodthirsty animals we’ve got today. No. Ms. Frazil had integrity.”

Robbie nodded, wondering if Morse had been so charitable to the press back in the day. “So where’s this Gull fellow come in?”

“He saw the clippings. Had an affinity for opera himself. Decided that opera— and outsmarting me— would be the grand theme of his killings. It was a game to him, Lewis. A game. And I made the perfect opponent.”

“And he kept your picture.”

A nod. “We found it in the cellar of an old farmhouse. The owner had been bricked up alive.”

That made Robbie’s blood curdle a bit. Just hearing about it was bad enough, and then he was trying to imagine what it must’ve been like to find. Morse pressed a hand to his mouth, probably trying not to be sick, and Robbie took that as a cue to stop imagining.

“I’d no idea, Sir.”

“No, well. You wouldn’t. We did all we could to let that case rot after it was over. He wanted to be remembered, Gull did, and I never like to give a murderer what he wants. In fact,” he turned his blue eyes on Robbie, “I’d recommend you forget about it immediately.”

It was going to be a long while before Robbie fancied himself managing that, if ever, but he nodded as though he was going to give it his best go. “Right. And no more pictures of you, either.”

“No, Lewis. No more pictures. No more newspapers. And I don’t think I’ll be leaving my curtains open any time soon.”

“Right, Sir.” Morse’s eyes seemed to be going distant again, like he was thinking of what could happen with all the new press. That’s what Robbie was thinking about at least. Now it was his turn to put a hand on Morse’s arm, not gripping, just patting gently. “It’ll be alright.”

Morse didn’t shrug him off, just shot back a bitter “will it?”

“Well sure. At least this time the papers didn’t make you out to be any kind of master detective, did they?”

He couldn’t help smiling at Morse’s bark of surprise.

“No, Lewis,” he admitted. “No they did not.” Then, amazingly, as though he was some kind of drunk cat, he leaned his head forward onto Robbie’s arm again.

“And if you ever get any of those attacks again—”

“ _Shut up,_ Lewis.”

He’d be alright, then. Robbie was sure of it. And in the meantime, as long as Morse wanted it, he was happy be pet his hair and, well, just be around, really. Just be around.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought. 
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr as dwarven-beard-spores, dreamwidth as dwarvenbeardspores, and twitter as @beardspores.


End file.
